


One Thousand Bars

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, M/M, Post-War, Prison Sex, threat of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2603732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And I will hold on hope / And I won't let you choke / On the noose around your neck / And I'll find strength in pain / And I will change my ways / I'll know my name as it's called again</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Thousand Bars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brief_and_Dreamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brief_and_Dreamy/gifts).



> A billion thanks to my awesome pre-reader, __, and the great job __ did betaing this. I appreciate your help, your time, and your support so very, very much! Mel, I hope you like your gift! I had a great experience writing it for you. Incidentally, when I saw one of your prompts was Mumford & Sons' "The Cave", I knew that was it, and that amazing song drove the entire writing experience from the start. Happy Erised! :-)

It's pitch dark in the corner, no matter the time of day. Even as the morning bleeds grey through rusty bars that needn't exist for all the magicks in place, that one corner remains unlit. 

In the corner, there's a spider, her movement often obscured by darkness, but still he watches her as best as he can from his cot across the cell. She arrived here the same time he did, and in the three months they've both been here, she's created a vast web. She works on it slowly, diligently, and in much the same way, he watches her.

The web has grown so grand she's had to venture into the light to expand it, to tether it to each wall, silk against stone. He sees her leg, like an old witch's finger, reach out here or there... her brown body quivering as she meticulously mends a tear.

She is his company, and so even though he harbours a great fear of spiders, and even though he will never draw near to her, and even though she shrouds herself in the darkest corner of Azkaban, he fixates on her, is grateful for her.

His life has dwindled to her, his focus rapt to a dark corner to avoid the truths the light tries to bring in.

Until one day he can't avoid it any longer even if that's his most fervent wish.

The guard rattles his magical keys as he walks up to the cell. It's Hector today, though that hardly matters. Hector brings phlegm to the back of his throat and hocks the mucus onto the ground. The spider moves deeper into her safe darkness, and the prisoner doesn't lift his head from the flat rock of his pillow.

Not even when Hector speaks to him.

"Malfoy. Someone's here to see you."

Draco blinks but otherwise doesn't move. It will be his mother. She's the only one to ever visit him; twice a month is what she's allowed by the Wizengamot's decision. His father has long since disappeared and likely would have refrained from stopping by had he stayed. She'll have come to try to convince him yet again to change his mind. She'll have come to cast her gaze over his changed body, to inflict on him her diminutive hope, false though it is, that they can overcome it all.

So when Hector speaks again, it isn't just surprise that strikes Draco deep beneath his ribs. It's something more like horror.

"Potter," Hector barks. "Harry Potter's here to see your tarnished pedigree, Malfoy."

Draco doesn't move. He stays curled on his cot. He observes the web in the corner trembling with the spider's careful movement, her useless grace.

He exhales completely and relishes the undeniable emptiness of his lungs.

He closes his eyes.

*

_One Week Earlier..._

The dirt feels pleasantly cool in his hand. Autumn's coming, and with it apples, jumpers, family. With it the irregularity, the impossibility, of not getting on the train.

They waited to have the funeral until George was ready to say good-bye. It's only Fred's ashes, after all. Today is the day, three months since his death, yet they all look like ghosts of themselves, standing amidst the quick fog dancing at their ankles. It's as though it's only just happened.

The witch conducting the service speaks in slow, unthreatening tones, talking of Fred's antics, his almost constant air of mischief. She spends a good deal of time on his achievements, largely not academic but rich with the love for his family, his unmatched sense of humour, his stoic generosity. Hermione leans her head onto Ron's shoulder, silent tears coming down. Ron meets his eye, his own gaze so distant as to be in Egypt or memory. Harry lifts his face to the rustle of oak leaves on the incoming wind and takes a deep breath.

The dirt in his hand has warmed to the temperature of his own blood, and only now does he open his fist, turn his palm, and let the soil rain down into the grave.

 

"Why don't you come back to the Burrow, Harry?" Mrs Weasley's strong, trembling hand rests on his elbow. "I'm making Freddie's favourite: toad in the hole." Her smile moves over her lips, never settling, always fluctuating.

"Thank you. But I think I'd better be getting back."

Back to what is a question no-one dares ask him except Hermione or Ron. They've certainly earned the right. Molly Weasley, for whom home is so important, doesn't question Harry's drive to renovate Grimmauld Place as though his siege on the house can replace his old life of hunting down Horcruxes and saving the world. Maybe this seems natural to her in some maternal and even cellular way. She hugs him, and they say their good-byes.

"One last pint before Hermione leaves?" Ron asks. "Two weeks from Saturday?" His hands are deep in his trouser pockets. He's taken to this posture lately, as though he can pocket away all the feelings he refuses to show and simply hold them there out of sight until he becomes ready to set them loose. Harry wonders sometimes why he feels he needs to be so strong. Maybe to match Bill's immutable solemnity or emulate Charlie's distance. Perhaps it's to offset the pain that only George seems capable of bearing openly.

He'd wept during the burial. So had Arthur, though he'd had to turn away at one point, Percy's arm around his shoulders. George's magic had been so strong as to be nearly blinding, and Harry could only watch from his peripheral vision as George had lowered the urn into the ground while he wept.

He's probably the wisest of them all.

Except maybe Ginny, who bore the pain in waves, stubborn chin jutting before quivering under the weight of her grief.

Harry had not held her hand. That isn't his place any longer. She's with Dean now. 

Harry shakes himself from thoughts of the service. "Absolutely. We need to see Hermione off properly, don't we?"

She winds her arm around Ron's, the only person permitted to penetrate this new defence, and gives Harry the same steady smile he's come to rely on. "I wouldn't miss it."

Harry considers trying to hug them, but Ron's barely holding it together, and Hermione's busy holding him up, so he decides against it. They'll hug plenty before they see Hermione onto the Hogwarts Express anyway. He and Ron will see one another often enough; the joke shop's Floo is linked with Grimmauld's after all.

It begins to rain once Harry Apparates to the alleyway down the street from the house. His walk to the property is brisk, his head down, so he almost doesn't see her there on the pavement until he practically runs into her.

"Oh." He startles to a stop. "Mrs... Mrs Malfoy?"

Her robes are fine, but fatigue and worry are so plainly etched on her face. "Hello, Harry."

"Are you here to see me?" It seems a silly question being that she's standing outside his house in the rain. But her appearance here seems so bizarre that he feels the need to ask, in case she's simply been stranded on his doorstep by some wayward yet completely coincidental magic and has yet to Disapparate or pull her wand for a Knight Bus.

"May I come inside?" She shivers, and Harry realises she's wetter than he. She must have been waiting some time and not thought (or for whatever reason neglected) to cast the simple charms that could keep her warm and dry.

Wariness wars inside him with the need to be polite. Belatedly, he gestures up the walk. "Please."

 

Harry nudges the teacup across the table. Narcissa Malfoy gives him a cursory smile though she doesn't take the proffered cup to sip. He'd hardly got her to sit down, actually. She perches stiff and anxious in the corner of the sofa, hands clasped hard in the folds of her robes.

A disastrous feeling comes upon him. It's the actual feeling that she's brought some sort of disaster into his home, and Harry's not sure where that sensation comes from. He knows her predicament, both from the personal experience of vouching for her at her trial and because he reads that rag, the _Daily Prophet_ , when he feels he must.

He knows her husband has fled.

He knows... other things.

"Mrs Malfoy--"

"Narcissa." Her look is almost pleading now. Her magic reaches out to him even as her eyes flit in distaste over his newly-butter-gold walls and furniture chosen for its comfort.

"Narcissa," he recites, feeling supremely odd about it. "I don't mean to be rude, but... Is there a reason you're here?" Harry is sure, beyond any doubt, that he doesn't want to know.

"It's Draco."

_Of course it is._

"Yes?" He's careful, deliberate. _Is he all right?_ is on the tip of his tongue. He bites it back.

"You know where he is, Mr Potter."

"I'm aware, yes."

She sighs, glancing at the tea as though she would really like some, as though she needs to be soothed. "He doesn't belong in that place." It's almost a whisper.

"The court seemed to feel differently." Harry doesn't know why he's saying this. He agrees with her. He was bloody furious with the Wizengamot over the verdict. Something hard and unyielding that's been sitting in his stomach turns viscous, molten.

She looks up at him sharply. There is fight in her yet. He remembers the soft breath of a brave and duplicitous woman against his cheek. "And they're always correct. Aren't they?"

He cringes. She is, of course, referring to his underage magic charge, Dolores Umbridge, that dark time that preceded the darkest. He takes an even breath. "I'm not sure what you're asking of me."

Suddenly, she sits forward. "Go to him. Convince him to do what they want. He doesn't _belong_ in there."

His laugh is dry. He can't quite believe this is happening. "What makes you think he'll listen to me? What makes you think I'd have the least bit of success--" He clamps his mouth shut. A sharp guilt and its accompanying sadness -- two things he knows he's been avoiding for months -- suddenly take up residence in his body like disease. "Narcissa... I just don't think I'm the right person to... Your son doesn't _like_ me. He doesn't trust me. What makes you think he'll listen to one word I have to say?"

Her smile is pained. "Witch's intuition, I suppose."

He stands. He feels like an intruder in his own house. The urge to Disapparate is palpable. "I'm sorry. I really am. I..." He looks at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. "I think I could really only make things worse."

The storm, practically grown to a tempest, blasts the windows. She's about to go off into it. 

It's not his fault she raised and groomed a Death Eater for a son.

It's not his fault Draco Malfoy has decided he _is_ fit for Azkaban.

Still, it is one thing to reject a request, calligraphy-polite, in an Owl. It's another to look into her eyes.

It's another to face this thing he's ignored, this wrong gone unrighted.

He hates how he feels: knotted up by instinctual compassion and the painful desire to _do_ something. He stares at the floor, feeling useless. His face itches. He needs to shave. "I'm sorry," he says again.

She doesn't answer, but she leaves a card on the side table before she walks proudly down his hall and through his front door.

He fetches a Firewhisky before he looks at the card.

_If you change your mind, we will all be in your debt._

_He's my only son, just as you were to your mother._

_N_

Harry tosses back the alcohol. He wants to ball the card up in his fist and throw it in the fireplace.

He doesn't.

He can't.

*

Draco rolls onto his back, an arm covering his eyes. The wards on the cell are decent, but he can still smell him out there -- radiant, fresh off Quidditch maybe. He's the only thing here that doesn't reek of decay.

"Hello, Potter," Draco sighs.

"Malfoy."

Hector ambles away, keys merrily banging into his hip.

"What did she pay you, hmm?" Draco asks. "Life debt maybe?"

"She's concerned about you."

"Oh, _that's_ a yes." He laughs. "Merlin, that's just what this family needs."

"I think your family needs you out of that cell, Malfoy."

Draco sits up, anger coursing through him. He swings his legs over the side of the cot and sets his elbows on his knees, one of them bouncing. He doesn't look at Potter. "What would you know? God, why are you here? What, did you get bored saving the easy ones? Is this your advanced curriculum, Potter?"

"I told her this was a mistake."

Draco stands. Suddenly, his body is thrumming with magic. His hands grip and loosen, grip and loosen. He aches for his wand.

"Finally," he says, smiling. "Someone who makes _sense_!" He turns to Potter then, sees him, and the floor drops away from his feet. His stomach clenches. He's back there, eleven years old, holding out his hand again, unshaken. The past is in his face. Rage fills his heart. He begins to pace. "Tell me, Potter. Made any babies with the Weaslette yet? Oh, that's right. She left you. Pity. Green eyes and ginger hair. Would have made adorable little super-wizards, yes? Got any prospects? The papers all want to know. Not that I've kept up with my reading in here. But they do. Don't they? The papers _always_ want to know about who's in the Saviour's bed. Or who's not." 

"You're a bastard."

"Again!" Draco laughs. "Someone who finally gets it." He rushes at the bars. He's been practicing this for weeks now so that he's built up a resistance to the burn. He grabs the metal, feels the magical voltage up his arms. Potter flinches, but he doesn't back away. "I'm not a good man, Potter. And they want me to apologise?" His arms begin to shake from the strain of withstanding the wards. He stares into Potter's eyes. "Tell me, do I look worth it to you?"

Potter blinks.

The pain becomes too much. Draco falls away, sweating, his stench sour and untenable. 

"Just get out of here, Potter. You've done what you came to do." Draco smooths a hand over his head, though the hair there is too short now for it to make a difference; it's simply force of habit. "You've made your gallant gesture." He looks at Potter there, frowning and mute. For once. His rage bleeds away, and now Potter can't leave fast enough for his tastes.

_Leave._

_Leave, you prick._

_Leave me the fuck alone._

"Go home and have a drink and cheer up, Potter. You can't save them all." Draco gives him a sick smile.

Potter's lips part. He wants to say something. Draco's barely holding it together. Potter's eyes... The stupid ponce doesn't hate him quite enough.

"Get out," Draco says, gaze hard on the filthy floor. "Get out of here and go wank off to thoughts of your former glory."

He listens as Potter hesitates then slowly walks away. But moments later, Potter's voice rings out one last time.

"It won't work, you know."

Draco turns to ask what the fuck he means by that, but Potter is already gone.

Draco sinks into a crouch, his head in his hands.

*

He meets them at the Leaky, and Harry doesn't realise he's been frowning until he sees them, snuggled up in the booth together like newlyweds, and his face, his whole body, relaxes. Ron sees him and waves him over.

"Ordered you two pints, mate, since we've been here long enough to be on our second ones and you need to catch up."

Harry strips off his jacket, sips before he even sits. "Good. I need it." He practically falls into his side of the booth.

"You look wretched," Ron says.

Hermione smacks him in the arm. "But really, Harry, you don't look entirely well."

"Just tired." He scratches at his chin, takes another long swallow. The beer is ice cold, almost sweet. Thank Merlin for Hermione's proficiency with _Glacius_. 

He lets them talk for half an hour first -- Hogwarts, the joke shop, Charlie's new Chinese Fireball, etc -- before he tells them about Malfoy.

"What?" Ron's appalled.

Harry shrugs, playing with the condensation on the glass. "Narcissa asked me."

"And if she asked you to release another basilisk into the castle, would you go ahead and do that, too?"

"Ron..." Hermione chides.

"Sorry. How is he in there then?"

Harry considers this. "Angry."

"At who?"

"I think himself mostly." Then he adds, "The world. Me."

"You?"

Harry smiles at his friend. "And you expected...?"

Ron sighs. "What are you going to do?"

Harry sips, shrugs again. "Talk to him, I guess."

Hermione reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.

Ron drinks half his beer. "Well, I guess there's not a whole lot of harm in that. Unless you start taking his insults personally."

"Hardly." _Get out of here and go wank off to thoughts of your former glory._ Harry takes a deep breath.

"Need to break the seal," Ron announces.

"Lovely," says Hermione, but she's smiling as she moves to let Ron out.

When they're alone, she leans forward on her elbows and pins him with her loving concern.

"I'm all right, you know," he feels the need to say.

"Harry, if you need to get in touch with me, you know you can fire-call."

"What, Hogwarts?"

She nods. "I'll be up all hours studying. I'll make sure to commandeer the sofa in front of the hearth."

He gives her a rueful smile and finishes his beer in one great swallow.

 

By the time they're all saying their good-byes on the nine and three quarters that Monday, Harry has formulated a plan. He has no expectations that it will, in any way, succeed. He doesn't even know why he's going to do it, except that maybe Narcissa Malfoy's thank-you Owl for seeing Draco may have swayed him.

He's not sure. It's not as though his heart has softened to her son. Draco's vile. He's beyond insulting. He's unrepentant. 

And Harry wants to follow through on this anyway.

He hugs Hermione, watches her kiss Ron, long and hard. Once she's on the train and it's pulling away, he shakes Ron's hand like they're adults, pulling him into a hug and banging on his back.

"See you Friday." They're on for fish at the new pub on Diagon Alley. Ron's complained of its smell wafting into the shop windows. His complaint is entirely based on its presumed deliciousness. Harry hopes this isn't the makings of another ambush blind date. Although, that had Hermione's name written all over it, not Ron's. Harry wants this to just be him and his best friend. He's not in a rush to pair up with anyone again.

Even though Malfoy's right: the papers won't stop speculating until he does.

He makes a quick stop at Andromeda's on the way to Azkaban. Little Teddy is teething, so Harry brings by some Calming Draught and a new toy, a little stuffed unicorn that says 'I love you, Teddy' every so often.

He stays only long enough to hold the baby, get spit up on, and hear all the news. 

"So, Andromeda? Do you have it?"

"Of course, my boy." She hefts herself out of her chair and disappears into the kitchen while Harry lays Teddy down in his bassinet for his nap. She returns with a plate under a sturdy stasis charm.

"Thank you. I really appreciate you doing this," he says. 

"He's family," she says gruffly. "We don't burn our tapestries in this house."

He gives her a one-armed hug. By the time he's got the plate stowed safely in the bag strapped to the motorbike, it's drizzling. Harry adds some weather charms to the Muggle-disillusionment ones, waves to Andromeda on the porch, and kicks the bike to life. He guns it down the drive and takes to the air as the orange sun sets behind thunderheads.

 

They have to inspect it, of course. They inspect everything.

But he's Harry Potter, and that buys him some token of respect, and they allow him through expediently. 

The same guard as the first time, Hector, takes down the wards and opens the cell door, pushing the plate inside before locking up again. "He gives you any trouble..." Hector eyes Malfoy sitting sedately on his cot. "You just call me."

Harry gives him a tight smile. 

Right. He'll do that.

Once Hector leaves, Harry wraps his hands around the bars. The magic only works one way, and Harry can even reach an arm all the way through if he likes.

"So, that's what you meant, is it?" Malfoy asks. "'It won't work'?" He stands and saunters over, and Harry is struck by his nearly gaunt frame. "You meant that I could be an arsehole to you all I like... but you'd come back. Isn't that right?"

Harry sighs. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Got under your skin, did I? All that about not being able to save them all? You just can't stand that, can you, Potter?" Malfoy's smile more resembles a sick leer. "And what's this?" He walks over to the plate and crouches down. "Why, Potter. You didn't cook me dinner, did you?"

"No. Andromeda did. It's roast beef. She thought--"

The sound of Malfoy flinging the plate against the wall drowns Harry out. He takes a deep, calming breath.

"So, is that all," Malfoy asks, "or are you staying to chat? It was so lovely last time."

The moonlight flashes through the tiny window above Malfoy's sagging cot, gilding his too-short hair. They must keep it that way here for cleanliness. Though the last thing Harry would call his cell is clean. Tidy, yes. Clean, no. Malfoy's clean-shaven, too, while Harry already feels how much he needs to charm his own stubble off or take a razor to his jaw. 

Harry really looks at Malfoy: his cheeks hollowed, his collarbones dangerous-looking they're so sharp, his wiry arms, slim hips... The Azkaban rags frame his lanky body inelegantly, yet Malfoy walks as though he's in his finest dress robes. 

His eyes glint as dark as the waters inside the Crystal Cave. They're just as haunted. The cruel smile is ubiquitous.

"Why do you want me to hate you?"

"And I ask _you_ why I would need to want that? You so obviously already do." Malfoy shrugs and wanders around his cell, five slow, thoughtful strides this way, five that. "Seems like a waste of my energy to try to make you hate me more."

"Then cut it the fuck out, Malfoy." The bars have begun to warm to Harry's grip.

"Ah, but it's genetic. Don't you know that?"

"Why are you in here?"

Malfoy scoffs. "I'm a criminal, Potter. That's what you do with criminals: you throw them in a nice, dank cell to rot."

"You know what I mean. The Wizengamot only stipulated two things: that you do community service and you apologise for your misdeeds."

"Misdeeds. Now that's a word." Malfoy nears. "Doesn't it make it sound like I just slipped into them? Oh, I'm sorry. Made a bit of a misdeed there. I'll just clean that up."

"Who bloody cares what they call it, Malfoy? You could be free! You could hug your mother, have a life--"

"Pick up Muggle trash, have hexes thrown at my head every three steps down the street. Bloody wonderful." His smile is sweet now, eyes flat.

"You'd live that down. Come on, is this really better?"

And then suddenly, Malfoy's beating his fists against the bars, sending up deep red sparks, and Harry moves back instinctively.

"Better? You think it matters what's _better_? You think I'm so fucking selfish still? You think I'm some kind of coward? Like always?" He's seething as he backs away, rubbing the sides of his hands. "You think you know best, Potter?"

"I think..." Harry starts. It takes him a moment to find his breath after Malfoy's outburst. His heart beats fast and out of rhythm. He licks his lips. "I think you want to punish yourself more than anyone else does, Draco."

Malfoy's lips lift in a sneer. He wanders away from the bars, facing the opposite wall and crossing his arms. "We're done here."

When Harry makes no move to go, he shouts, "HECTOR! We're done here!"

Hector comes to retrieve Harry. "I'm going," Harry tells him when the guard tries to take his elbow.

"Little ponce upset you, Mr Potter?"

"No," Harry is quick to say. "No, I was ready to leave." He gives Malfoy one last look -- hunched, angular shoulders; dropped head; undetectable breath -- before he lets himself be led away.

*

Draco waits until the footsteps quiet -- until they disappear.

Then he falls to the floor in front of the spilled food, scooping it into his mouth with his hand as fast as he can.

*

Harry wipes the sweat from his brow and adjusts the Atmospheric spells in the greenhouse, lowering the humidity. He strips his t-shirt off and mops at his face, the back of his grimy neck.

"Careful," Neville says. "Keep those secateurs handy." His own hands are thrust into the soil around a young Venomous Tentacula plant, its vines docile for him. Harry had thought dealing with the Snargaluff pods would be the better deal, but he's second-guessing himself now that he's been ensnared twice and pricked with its thorns more times than he wants to count.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Harry?"

Harry smiles at him. "What? Don't I look thrilled to be here?"

"You know, when you set out to renovate this place, nobody expected you to do so single-handedly. In fact, it's a bit unrealistically ambitious, isn't it?" He pats the soil, and the plant sways happily. Neville sets it on its shelf and dusts off his hands.

"I don't know. Maybe." Harry leaves off the Snargaluff and leans against a worktop, crossing his arms. His gloves are caked with dirt, but he doesn't take them off. He's still got plans to prune the Asphodel, after all. "Thanks for coming out, Neville. I know you've got your own work to tend to."

Neville shrugs. "I only work at J. Pippin's Tuesday through Friday anyway. I do have to go in forty-five minutes, though. Have to get ready for..." He seems to choke on his own words, blushing madly.

"Neville, do you have a date?"

He grins.

"Abbott?"

He nods.

"Brilliant." Harry beams at him. Neville's only been talking about her for the last two months. "Where are you two going?"

"Oh! You should come, Harry!"

"Er... on your date with you? Do you think you really need a chaperone? Afraid you'll get a bad case of Tentacula hands?" Harry simulates the problem, gripping the air with his fingers.

"Oh, no, it's not that. I didn't mean-- I just-- We're going to Dean's showing. You should stop by."

Harry smacks himself hard in the forehead, feeling that he's left a smudge of dirt there. "I forgot it was tonight! I've already got myself new robes and everything. Gin invited me."

"So you'll be there?"

Harry thinks about what else he might do instead: read a book, clean the study, pick a paint colour for the second floor bath?

_Try not to think of his visit with Malfoy three weeks ago and whether or not he'll go back..._

"Yeah, sure. Why not?" Harry smiles.

 

He tugs awkwardly at his tie and then pulls at the robes, uncomfortable in the tight cut Luna had insisted was all the rage now when they'd gone shopping together. He feels like he didn't quite shower all of the greenhouse off himself and wonders how Neville does it -- if he's got himself a special _Scourgify_ technique for soil under the fingernails.

"Harry!" Ginny calls from across the gallery.

He waves and sips his red currant rum.

She leads him over to Dean's exhibit. "This is the latest one. Isn't it corking?"

Harry has to admit that Dean's got talent, though he's unsure what the painting's supposed to be about. When he asks Ginny, she rolls her eyes at him. "It's the juxtaposition of Muggle artifacts into a magical environment. It signifies the rift between the worlds and the one within every Muggle-born."

"Ah," Harry says, nodding as though it has all become clear. All he sees, though, are three ironing boards stacked against a brick wall and a Quaffle rolling around a puddle of mud.

"Here." Ginny drags him by the arm. "Let's get you another drink, and then I'll show you his flower series. You'll like that, Harry."

Like he's a child. Harry rolls his eyes. But he doesn't turn down the drink.

The flower paintings are really quite lovely. He tells Dean this when he joins them and snakes his arm around Ginny's waist for a quick squeeze.

"Thanks, Harry. You want one?"

"Oh, I couldn't." Though that yellow one would look especially jovial in the kitchen, Harry thinks. He watches the petals unfolding over and over. It seems... hopeful. Ginny would be so impressed with his critique... if she hadn't just wandered off to greet Padma Patil.

"If you agree to come sit for my level three art students, you can have whatever you like for free," Dean says smugly.

"Oh, no. No, you don't." Because Harry suddenly has a vision of himself dropping his trousers and sitting on a stool for a group of horrified art students who're meant to immortalise his soft prick. He imagines this happening in a very cold room. "No, thanks." He clears his throat. "But I'll pay full price for this one happily."

Dean pats him on the back. "Thanks, Harry. I'll have Seamus handle the transaction after the gala, all right? He does all that anyway."

"Sure. Sounds good." Harry sips his drink as Dean starts to wander away. But a flutter of deep plum and glittering silver catches his eye. "Say, wait a moment. Er, is that one for sale as well?"

" _Orchid in Driving Rain_ you mean? Yeah, it is. Do you want to change your mind, then? Seems a bit dramatic if what I've heard about your renovations is true. Thought you were going for a springy, happy look."

"Oh, I am. I'm not changing my mind, I--" Harry stops. He rethinks. He can feel the heat rushing up the back of his neck. "No, I think I'll take both, thanks. I'll figure out someplace to hang it." He smiles at his friend.

"Well, brilliant!" Dean says. "Brilliant, Harry!"

Harry knows what a relief the sale is. Dean's school isn't yet breaking even. "It's my pleasure to have two original Thomases up in my home," Harry says. It's only a small lie.

No-one needs to know it will be only the one.

*

They take him down the hall for his weekly shower, his wrists magically shackled together like he's guilty of the Killing Curse. (Apparently failing to cast it is just as heinous.) They don't leave him alone to wash himself, but they don't harass him much, either. Certainly nothing physical. Just, 'Look at Malfoy's bony arse! Look at how he's shivering!' Things of this nature.

Afterward, the prison nurse gives him an incompetent physical and then charms away most of his body hair, including giving him this bloody awful haircut. The nurse allows Draco to dress, then, and return to his cell.

He hasn't been outside in nearly four months.

When he arrives in his cell again, it's to find yet another meal from Andromeda Tonks, this one not delivered by Potter. Draco doesn't know how she's getting them through, but it's been twice a week. He's too hungry to reject them out of pride, and as long as the guards let him have them, he's decided he'll lick up every drop of gravy, pick up, with shaky fingers, every single pea and carrot.

He's put on a couple of pounds in the last three weeks. Some of this is improved eating habits. Some is the exercise routine he's begun. He can now manage fifty sit-ups and twenty-five push-ups. He's not sure what's possessed him. All he knows is that there's more energy coursing through him. It feels a lot like producing magic, and he curses his lack of a wand. It's like missing an arm, and he suffers the phantom pain.

Unsure what to do with this new source of urgency, Draco paces his cell, does his exercises, and tries not to let it become the sort of panic that could overrun his blood... that feels like it could slice through his skin in order to get out... to escape.

It makes sleeping more difficult, but he's afraid of what the nurse will give him if he knows Draco's only dozing four or five hours a night, quick to wake at every lashing of the sea against the rocks, every seabird's cry.

_Every insane cackle from the floors below and above. Every bout of desolate crying. Every slam of the bars as they shut._

He's nearing his nineteenth push-up and feeling like he could make it to thirty or thirty-five today when Rufus, the nicest guard in Azkaban -- so much so that Draco wonders how he's kept his job, clears his throat. "Mr Malfoy?"

When Draco pushes away from the floor one last time, coming to kneel, and then, breathing heavily, looks up, it's to see Potter by his side.

"You need anything, Mr Potter, you just let me know," Rufus says. He nods at Draco warily before he walks away.

Draco's still trying to catch his breath. Cooling sweat runs down the middle of his back, makes the rags he's wearing stick to his chest. He scratches his fingers over his prickly scalp, self-conscious. "I rather thought me slamming Auntie Andromeda's plate against the wall would drive you away for good, Potter."

Potter gives him a strange smile. "I'm persistent."

"Obviously." Draco stands, pops his neck.

"I could see if they'd allow you a mat or something. So you wouldn't have to do that on the hard floor."

"Why, Potter. You want me to be _comfortable_ in here? I thought it was your job to get me out, not make me want to stay." Draco lifts his shirt and cleans the sweat off his face, belatedly realising he's showing Potter his pathetic, weak body -- the muscles that are barely there... that tremble so easily from exertion. He drops the material, sees that Potter was indeed looking, and eyes Potter instead in retaliation. 

Dark jeans, new-looking. Black t-shirt with some logo for something on it. Whether wizarding or Muggle, it's hard to tell. Motorcycle jacket.

Motorcycle jacket...

Draco swallows. "What's that you've brought with you?"

Potter looks like he forgot he was hiding something behind his back. "Oh. Er, it's nothing. Well, not nothing. It's..."

"Well, which is it? Something or nothing?" 

Potter brings it around front and holds it up for Draco to see. He sighs. "It's from Dean Thomas' first show."

Draco blinks at the painting. The movement is mesmerising, the colours changing, pulsing. There's something graceless about the orchid, pummeled by wicked rain. There's something ugly and strong there -- something that Draco recognises like he would a brother, if he had any idea what having a brother felt like.

"So?" he asks, jutting his chin out.

"For fuck's sake, Malfoy. Why does _everything_ have to be fought like a duel with you? It's a painting. It's a gift!"

"I didn't ask for your gifts!" Draco finds himself shouting.

To Draco's shock, Potter doesn't shout back. He exhales, sets the painting aside on the floor, and he slides his back down the wall opposite Draco's cell. He sits there with one knee bent, like he's waiting for a bus that's really late. He starts talking.

"Hermione's gone back to Hogwarts for another year. Did you know that?" He shakes his head like the answer doesn't actually matter and moves on. "Ron's going to be helping George run the joke shop. They've ordered these new, barmy--"

"What are you doing?"

Potter meets his gaze, in the middle of miming whatever barmy things his friends have ordered. He shrugs and drops his hands. "I'm talking."

"Oh." Draco frowns.

Potter continues. He talks about his friends and what they're all doing, like Draco could ever possibly care. At first, Draco just stands there, his legs aching and body tight with frustration. But Potter's not stopping. So eventually, Draco wanders over and sits on his cot, resting his own back against the cold wall. He's not actively listening to Potter. He doesn't give three fucks about Neville Longbottom's attempt to make a potion that counters the Imperius curse or Luna Lovegood becoming Head Girl.

But while he can tune out the topics, he can't escape the sound of Potter's voice droning on and on. Except he doesn't drone. His cadence changes as he talks about his different friends. Sometimes he's quiet, almost introspective to the point that Draco doesn't think his own presence matters at all. Sometimes Potter laughs, and he talks faster, and the heat of his love for these people is so apparent and naive and vulnerable that Draco's made breathless by it.

He would _never_ talk that way. To anyone. About anything.

Suddenly, sitting there with his sweat drying cold against his skin and the chill from the wall seeping into his bones, Draco remembers something. He remembers being small -- four or five. He recalls trying to tell his father something important and being ushered out of the third floor study. He remembers his mother, on the first floor, being too busy commanding the house-elves in their duties for the dinner that night to pay him any attention. Not that he lacked for attention, but it was never on his own terms, always at his father's demand or his mother's behest.

He remembers sulking off to his big room on the second floor, kept spotlessly clean. He remembers crawling under the bed, so lonely it felt like his heart could not contain the sensation. He had gathered up the old teddy bear whose magic had all worn away so that it no longer spoke to him or danced or sang -- so that it could only listen, eyes wide as though to take in all of Draco's pain. Father had tried to take the bear and destroy it once its magic died out, but Draco had hid it and made a deal with Bumpy, his personal house-elf, ( _"Take Bear or tell Daddy or Mummy about him, and I'll kill you."_ ), and the bear stayed concealed under the bed.

He remembers talking to Bear in the dark about all the things he wants, all the things he will do that will be great, about all the things he hates and the people he hates and the foods he hates. Draco remembers the heat in his own voice, the pain of needing connection.

He hates that child. He hates that bear. And he hates Harry Potter.

He hates the sound of his voice, filling the enormous chasm between them.

Draco hates that Potter's voice wraps around him, sneaks into his cracks, and makes a home inside his vacant chest.

He positively hates how good this feels. To be filled up again.

"You may give it to me," Draco interrupts Potter's aimless meandering.

"What?"

"The painting. I'll take it." 

"Are you trying to shut me up, Malfoy?" Potter actually laughs at this idea. It irks Draco.

"Look, either give it to me or take it away, but I have no use for your blathering."

Potter's lips twitch. "Very well." He stands and dusts off his jeans. His t-shirt's ridden up, and Draco catches sight of the thin trail of very dark hair on his belly before Potter tugs the cotton back down. "I need your word, though, that you won't just go and destroy it, okay?"

"Is it my gift to do with as I please or not, Potter?" Draco stands up and waits for him to send the painting through the bars. He feels nervous and excited. And scared. Like Potter might just take it away. He should say something nice to get him to feel good about leaving it.

But he can't.

He can't.

Potter sighs. He says nothing as he guides the painting through the bars and lays it on the cell floor. He steps back. "I'll speak with the guards and make sure they don't try to confiscate it or something."

Draco's hands itch to pick it up, but he crosses his arms and waits for Potter to leave.

"All right then," Potter says. "I--"

Draco raises an eyebrow at him when he goes silent.

"Just... Well, good-night." Potter strides quickly down the hall toward the archway at the end and the infernal stairs leading down, down, down, down, down.

Draco kneels near the painting. He hovers his fingers over the battered petals, the stem ready to break.

*

Harry plans his next trip to Azkaban for the following week. He puts off the curse-breaker he's hired to take a look at the ten trunks he found in the attic which nothing in the world (or in his magical knowledge) seems to open. He puts off the trip he'd planned to make to Romania to visit Charlie. Charlie's laid back about it and tells him Norberta's having a pisser of a time with her pregnancy anyway and can't be arsed to take visitors at the moment.

Harry makes time, however, for a visit to Hermione in Hogsmeade.

He meets her at Madam Puddifoot's for tea, because it's less likely they'll be mobbed there than The Three Broomsticks. He feels intense guilt even thinking it -- he doesn't _want_ adulation, of course, nor does he want to insult his self-proclaimed "fans" -- but there doesn't seem to be anything for it. The war's too fresh. He's still seen as the hero that saved them all, even though he's tried again and again to paint himself in the few interviews he's granted as just one of many wizards and witches doing what they had to do in an impossible situation. Though that doesn't sell a lot of papers, apparently.

Hermione and he talk about Hogwarts and what it's like for her to be back. She's dealing with a bit of hero-worship of her own, she tells him. A new girls' hairstyle seems to be The Granger: magically teased to proportionate bushiness. It's all the rage.

When they've finished their tea, Harry asks, "Would you take a walk over to Tomes and Scrolls with me?"

Hermione agrees. It's a book shop, after all. But once they're inside, closing the blustering Autumn wind out, she turns to him. "So, what's this about?"

"Are you still advocating for house-elves, Hermione? Still into law and all that?" He blows on his hands. It'll be winter before they know it.

"Definitely. Do you know a house-elf who'd like clothes, Harry?"

"Oh no, nothing like that." Though Malfoy does sort of look like a very tall house-elf in those prison rags, Harry thinks. He shakes himself. "No, but I could really use your help getting the right books all the same."

She smiles at him. "Of course."

 

Three hours later, she's gone back to the castle, and Harry's carrying a miniaturised bag full of four books on Wizengamot trials and outcomes, sentences that have been overturned and why... and for really no other reason than that it caught his eye, a book of Muggle poetry.

He secures his purchases on the bike, kicks it to life, and then gets his speed up down the lane before taking to the gunmetal grey skies.

Azkaban intimidates on the best of days, but today, with the wind building the sea into a wrath of white foam and green depths, and the prison's outer walls wet and dark with rain, it's positively foreboding.

Harry sighs as he walks inside and surrenders his wand with the first floor guard. She eyes the bag he's carrying with a frown.

"Oh, it's just some reading material. Cleared it with Shacklebolt," he lies.

She gives him a hesitant nod. Harry smiles bigger than he wants to. He hates the way this place feels. It may not be overrun with dementors anymore, but their cold menace still pervades the very stone. It's all Harry can do not to grab his wand back and cast his Patronus to ward off the ghostly feel of them that comes up through the soles of his shoes and steals into his chest. It feels as though one lurks around every corner.

Malfoy's on the tenth level. There are only three cells in his hallway, and one of those is empty. The third is occupied by a completely silent wraith of a wizard with trembling hands and frightened eyes that skitter away when Harry peers in at him.

When Harry nears Malfoy's cell, his heart starts to hammer. He's grateful it's Rufus leading him through the prison again today. Harry can tell the man doesn't lord his power over the inmates. Not like that Hector bloke. Or some of the others Harry has glimpsed teasing the prisoners, spilling their food on purpose and such. Harry's written an Owl to the Ministry requesting a meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt, but even for The Boy Who Lived a Couple Different Times there's a wait. Harry must concede that the man truly does have a mess of untold proportions to clean up.

"Potter," Malfoy says when he sees him. There's a not-altogether-snide smile on his lips. Colour has come back into his skin. He looks healthier even than a week ago.

"Malfoy."

"Is this going to turn into a weekly pestering?"

"Maybe. Until you agree to the Wizengamot's terms, that is. Then I might leave you alone." Harry sets the bag down by his feet. He doesn't miss how Malfoy's eyes light upon it. He doesn't mistake the flare of interest before it's banked.

Harry's on to Malfoy. He likes shiny things. It must make it that much more unbearable -- to be existing in this grey place, haunted by dementor residue, day in and day out. Nothing fine. No promise.

Harry wonders about the nights. He remembers his own nights without food, with hidden books and bars on his window. 

It's nothing compared to this.

"I brought you some books." He doesn't ask if Malfoy wants them. He sees the painting leaned against the wall opposite Malfoy's bed, unharmed, and the last thing he wants is to give Malfoy any opportunity to hex himself in the foot with his idiotic pride. Harry pushes the bag through the bars and waits.

"Are you sure about this, Potter?" Malfoy makes no move toward the bag.

"You worried about Hector?"

Harry watches Malfoy inhale measuredly, the swift and subtle flicker in his eye... the telling movement of his throat.

"I'll make sure he doesn't touch them," Harry says. He means it.

He means it with a force that surprises him.

At Harry's assurance, Malfoy saunters over to the bag like he's shopping at some Parisian boutique for a new six hundred Galleon shirt. He purses his lips, tilts his head at it, hesitates before he crouches. Harry watches the graceful way he moves. If he had enough hair left, Harry feels sure he'd flick it out of his face like a haughty ponce. The blond spikes that they've given him catch the wan moonlight that filters in through the tiny window. The prat's hair still shines. Harry catches himself before he smiles and then sits back against the wall while Malfoy sits on his cot and sorts through the books, a contemplative frown on his face.

"These all have to do with wizarding law."

"Not all of them. One's--" Harry feels odd telling Malfoy he bought him a book of Muggle poetry. He can feel that he's blushing. "--not," he finishes. 

"You think if I learn the law, I'll somehow... what? Recount my stance, take the deal, and live out my days in ignominy, Banishing trash from the streets of Hogsmeade while first year Hogwarts students throw unperfected hexes at me?"

"Yes, those were exactly my thoughts, Malfoy."

Malfoy's lips twitch. Harry is sure this is completely involuntary. His eyes even twinkle as he tries not to smile at Harry. "Just so we're clear." He opens what appears to be _Extraordinary Trials in History_.

"Turn to five forty-eight," Harry says. "There's a case that got thrown out due to non-Imperius-related coercion that I think could--"

"Five forty-eight is a trial involving Transfiguration of an entire floor of St. Mungo's into a petting zoo."

"What? No. No, I know there's information on that case there. Five forty-eight. Check your page numbers, Malfoy." Harry leans forward. 

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "I feel sure my eyesight is better than yours, Potter. I'm on five forty-eight, and it's all baby goats, ducks, and rabbits."

Harry harrumphs. "Pass it through. Let me see." He stands and shoves his arm through the bars.

"No."

"What do you mean, no? Come on, Malfoy." Harry wiggles his fingers. 

"Don't waste your energy. I know they took your wand at the 'welcome' desk." He pronounces the word with disdain. "Listen." He proceeds to recite the verdict of the St. Mungo's case, and Harry has to admit that if he's making it up, he's extraordinarily gifted at crafting utter shit on the fly.

Harry sighs in frustration. "Let me see."

Malfoy positively sparkles. "No." He licks his finger, turns a page, and then pulls a face like it's the most interesting thing he's ever bloody read.

Harry rolls his eyes. He starts off down the hall. "Rufus? Rufus!" He pokes his head around the corner and yells his name first up and then down the stairs.

"Mr Potter?" comes from somewhere close below, even as Malfoy swears at Harry from his cell. "Yes, Mr Potter?" Rufus has apparently run up the stairs.

"Yes, erm..." Harry scratches his head. "I don't suppose there'd be any way you could let me into Mr Malfoy's cell, would there?"

"Oh... Er..." Rufus looks quite nonplussed.

Harry puts on his best 'Trust-Me-I'm-Harry-Potter' smile, though it feels loathsome on his face, as always. "I promise not to break any rules. Be out before you know it."

"You wouldn't be trying to... hurt 'im... would you?"

Harry feels immense relief that this is Rufus' most pressing concern. 

"No. No, I've no wish to hurt him." _Right now. Today. So far. Unless you count beating him over the head with a book of Muggle poetry. It's paperback._

"Oh, well... Well, er... Just a few minutes, all right?" Rufus pulls out his keys as they walk back down the hall.

When they arrive, Malfoy's looking less angry, more worried.

"If anything goes wrong," Rufus warns Malfoy, "it'll be on me. And then it'll be Hector on this floor all the time." He opens the cell door. "There you are, Mr Potter. I'll be back in five minutes."

"Thank you." Harry enters, feels the shift in the magic wards, and it's like ten dementors are just waiting to bleed out of the walls and up through the floor and down through the ceiling. Harry shivers as Rufus closes the door and walks away.

Harry turns to Malfoy. "Now. Show me that book."

Malfoy tugs it to his side, away from Harry. The gesture is one of a little boy, not a young man, and it almost softens Harry's heart to him. Harry walks resolutely over and sits on the cot right next to the git. He grabs the book and opens it over both their laps. 

The sudden proximity is electrifying. 

Malfoy gasps, whether at his nearness or rudeness, though, Harry's unsure.

Harry clears his throat as he flips the pages. He comes to five forty-eight, and blast if Malfoy wasn't right. Harry frowns.

"I told you. What, did you think I was making it all up on the spur of the moment?" He inspects his nails. "I do have a flare for weaving yarns. And I do adore winding you up, of course. But I'm afraid you've given me too much credit, Potter."

Malfoy's voice, so close, is a rich and peculiar thing. Their thighs touch. They look at each other. Harry lets his gaze travel over Malfoy's face, his short hair, his swallowing throat, the jutting collarbones...

He takes a deep breath and looks away. "Well, it's probably five forty-eight in one of these others." Harry digs through the bag at their feet and extracts _Magical Moral Perspective_.

They spend their entire five minutes arguing.

"Where's a _POTTER STINKS_ badge when I need one?" Malfoy says when they've gone through the third text.

They never do find the verdict Harry knows he and Hermione read together at some point.

All in all, it's the best five minutes of Harry's week.

This fact is incredibly disturbing.

When Rufus returns and Harry stands to leave, Malfoy simply watches him go -- all banter, all sniping, all sharing stopped like the air's been sucked out of the place.

Outside the cell, the magic mutes again, becomes harmless. Harry says good-bye to Malfoy, and when he walks away, he's left slightly off-balance, feeling as though he's unsure if it's the prison's magic he's still feeling...

Or if it's Malfoy's.

*

Late that night, there is barely any light by which to see. The moon set long ago. A lonely lighthouse sits on a jetty half a mile away. Draco is lucky the night lies thick with dense fog. Every minute, the light from the tower's zenith, a pearly shine the colour of Christmas, penetrates the window for three seconds. It's by this light that Draco reads from the most unlikely book he ever could have found inside a bag from Harry Potter:

_The Panther_

_In the Jardin des Plantes, Paris_

_by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)_

_1907_

_His vision, from the constantly passing bars,_  
_has grown so weary that it cannot hold_  
_anything else. It seems to him there are_  
_a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world._

_As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,_  
_the movement of his powerful soft strides_  
_is like a ritual dance around a center_  
_in which a mighty will stands paralyzed._

_Only at times, the curtain of the pupils_  
_lifts, quietly--. An image enters in,_  
_rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,_  
_plunges into the heart and is gone._

Draco holds his place with a finger and closes his eyes. The light flashes against his thin lids, shimmering, rhythmic, the slow pulse of one asleep.

*

Harry and Ron have been to that pub for their fish twice now. This third time, they decide to be magnanimous and bring some back for George at his flat above the shop.

George invites them in with strong hugs. They make a night of it and split a bottle of Firewhisky, talking of everything and nothing.

Harry gets drunker than he means to. He's not consciously trying to forget the warmth of Malfoy's thigh resting against his own. Well, perhaps semi-consciously. But he hadn't intended to get pissed. His words begin slurring, and his mates look suddenly beatific as angels, sprawled on manky furnishings.

"So, I've been seeing Malfoy," Harry blurts, because he can't keep it inside any longer.

Ron laughs in a way that could almost be construed as a giggle. He's as pissed as Harry. "Well, for how long? Should we be picking out the wedding gifts yet?"

Harry waves his arm. "No... No, not _seeing_." But his stomach decides to grow impossibly warm, his smile unstoppable for a few moments. He clears his throat. "No, in Azkaban."

"Have you?" George asks, leaning his elbows on his knees. "How is the stupid ponce?"

Harry shrugs.

"Angry," supplies Ron, taking another gulp of whiskey.

"Yeah. Mostly. But he's also... I dunno... funny. Sometimes."

George's eyebrows go up. All four of them. "I think it's closing time for Harry, Ron."

Ron belches. "I miss Hermione... _so much_." He holds his arms wide as if to quantify, spilling his drink in the process. Swallowing a second belch, he goes on, "They don't allow conjugal visits at Hogwarts, you know."

"Merlin." George shakes his head. "You're both staying here tonight. I'll Transfigure some things." He gets up.

Ron finishes whatever drink is left in his glass. "Just don't do anything daft, mate."

"What do you mean?" Harry's world is spinning. Or maybe it's just a curious effect of George's living room.

"Just... don't be thick about Malfoy, all right? He may not be Azkaban material, but he's still a--" Ron hiccups, "a plonker."

Harry smirks, remembering fourth year and shivering from the lake. He raises his glass to his friend. "I'm not being thick -- I'm showing moral fibre."

Ron snorts. He thinks for a moment. He snorts again. He shoves Harry in the side, and Harry laughs and shoves him back.

They're quiet for a few minutes, the sound of George casting spells in the background comforting and familiar.

"Say, Ron," Harry says, leaning toward his friend. "Have you and Hermione...? Well, have you, then? Conjugated?"

Ron's smile is a lopsided thing. "In my dreams, Harry. In my dreams." He falls to the side on the sofa and shortly thereafter begins to snore.

Harry turns and stares out at the night, the lights from the few shops still open down on Diagon. He lifts his gaze to the distance, toward Azkaban. It seems planets away.

*

"If you could stop being a bastard for five bloody minutes we might just get somewhere!"

Potter's back in his cell, and he's yelling at Draco. Again. Salazar, he's so _Gryffindor_ \-- up in arms about something and therefore everybody else should be as well.

Draco's been lounging on his lumpy cot while Potter paces, going over the information from the books again like it matters. Draco had rolled his eyes and said something to the effect of, 'Why don't you just join the Wizengamot yourself, if you love this tripe so bloody much?'

Hence the bastard remark.

Truthfully, Potter's succeeding in winding Draco up, if he's honest. Potter's hair's a perverse mess, and every time the idiot runs his hands through it (in exasperation with Draco -- which is often), it gets worse and worse. He's pink-cheeked, his voice too loud, his pacing's annoying as fuck, and he just keeps trying to get Draco to _change_.

That's the thing. That's what's got Draco's own ire boiling resolutely up from inside.

It's why he can't keep lounging and sits up. Why he bounces a knee in irritation, only to rise off the cot and cross his arms to keep from shoving the obnoxious git right out of his cell.

Bloody hell, he wishes he had his wand! He'd do anything to get it back.

Almost anything.

He won't be what his mother wants. What the Ministry wants. What they all want.

He can't be what Potter wants.

...Potter, in his motorcycle jacket and jeans that are slightly too big for him because he apparently has no taste whatsoever. He's here with his stupid hair and his bloody glasses, feeling bloody entitled to come in here and fuck with Draco's head.

Draco says it on a lark. He says it to get Potter's goat. It's spontaneous and meaningless and daft, but Potter's got him feeling reckless, and he wants to turn the tables.

"Maybe you don't hate me," he says. "Maybe you want to shag me." Draco watches Potter's face for the reaction he craves. Potter stops pacing, his eyes wide and round. Something inside Draco rejoices in this. "Yes," he says, "that must be it -- because saving the unsaveable turns you on. " Draco stalks toward him. "Do you have an erection right now, Potter? Do you?" Draco walks Potter across the cell until his back hits the wall. "Let me see," he says, expecting the blow to come any moment.

Any moment.

But when it doesn't, then they're just standing there, bodies close, Draco's heart pounding hard, breath shallow. He's almost angry that Potter's not hitting him. 

Pushing for a reaction, he grabs Potter's wrists, lifts them, and pins them over his head against the wall. He steps in, pressing his body to Potter's. Potter gasps, and Draco feels it. His own lips part in surprise.

Because Potter _is_ hard. Draco can feel the strain of it through the jeans, through his own thin rags. His hands tighten around Potter's wrists. He feels a deep pull in his belly, his legs. 

For the first time in many, many months, Draco's cock starts to go hard, too.

He takes a chance, thrusts his hips. Potter tries to stifle a groan and can't quite. A lust so thick and powerful it feels like rage rushes up Draco's body. He lunges forward and kisses Potter, opening his lips, thrusting in with his tongue. Potter's mouth is hot like the rest of him. His lips are, for the moment, pliant -- and Draco devours him.

It's only for a moment, and then Draco feels Potter's wrists flex under his hands. Potter pulls hard out of the kiss, and Draco's sure this is when the fight will start. It'll be worth it, after that. Merlin...

But no. Potter wrenches his arms down and spins them. He gets Draco's back against the wall instead, raises his wrists instead. Now it's Potter's hands that close warmly around, the strength in them a sexual rush all its own. Draco looks him in the eye. They're breathing hard, flush together.

Potter stares at him... and rolls his hips. 

They say nothing. Shivered breaths, an aborted grunt, Potter begins to pant. Draco spreads his legs some; he opens and closes his hands. The back of his head hits the wall. His cock hurts it's so hard for this. He's looking at Potter, his movements rhythmic, staccato, determined, and a single stinging tear comes to Draco's eye.

A jangle of keys from down the hall, and they're separating fast, Potter backing away, a hard hand running over his mouth and chin. Draco turns, tries to disguise his erection from view. Potter clears his throat.

"Potter, time's up," Hector says.

"Yeah. Yeah, right." His voice is changed, sex-rough. Draco's cock responds.

He can't face forward. He plants a hand on the cold wall, his body thrumming. Hector locks the cell door behind Potter's retreat. Draco turns his head at the last moment and catches Potter's eye.

Potter blinks, looking shocked to his bones. He drops his gaze and walks away.

Draco had been seconds away from coming.

*

Harry doesn't return the next week. Or the week after that. He Owls Narcissa that he's been busy and will she please let Draco know. His guilt bleeds into the ink like magic. She Owls back straight away that because of him her son is now accepting her own packages of sweets. She sends one to Harry, too, strung between two beleaguered owls. He feels even worse, opening the box and inhaling the divine scent of dark chocolate, raspberry liqueur, and confectioners' charms.

He has Kreacher put the box away in the pantry after the elf takes a truffle for himself.

Harry concentrates on the house. He finishes the first floor renovations, starts on the second.

He works hard to try to forget, but he can't; it's always there: Malfoy's body and his, the shock of his own desire, how far they'd let things go...

Late one night, when his muscles are sore from doing too many things the Muggle way and he's exhausted and can't keep his mind from it, he fire-calls the Gryffindor common room.

True to her word, Hermione's on the sofa in front of the hearth to answer it. She smiles at his head. She's wrapped in a blanket, a book open on her knees. "Harry."

"Hi, Hermione. Have time to talk?"

He asks her about Hogwarts; he truly wants to know. But she senses the need in him.

"What's wrong, Harry?"

"How long do you think it might take... should it take... to forgive someone calling you 'Mudblood'?" He doesn't know how else to start this conversation.

"You mean Malfoy."

"Yes, I mean Malfoy." Harry sighs. He scrubs his hands over his face, making the magical fire jump and sizzle.

She tilts her head. "I've already forgiven him."

When he just blinks at her, she shifts on the sofa, leaning forward, and continues.

"I forgave him for _me_ , Harry. Because I couldn't let him turn me into someone hateful."

"Do you think he's hateful?"

"I think he's behaved that way."

"And now?"

"You'd know better than I would. What do you think?"

He drops his head into the logs.

"Do you hate him?" she asks.

He lifts his face once more and considers this. "I don't hate him; I want to strangle him. There's a difference."

They sit in silence for a moment. Harry stares at the bunny head of Hermione's slipper peeking out from the edge of the blanket.

"You like him. Don't you?"

His head jerks up. "What?"

She laughs, not unkindly. "Harry, look what you're doing for him."

"But... That's just because it's the right thing to do."

" _And_ you like him."

"So... When you say 'like', do you mean that as in...?" He shrugs.

Her smile is warm and infinitely accepting. "You tell me."

He buries his face again. "Bloody buggering hell."

"Have you told Ron?"

"Of course not."

"What do you mean 'of course not'? He's not homophobic, you know."

"It's not that." Harry snorts. "It's _Malfoy_ , Hermione. I mean, I just snogged him two weeks ago; it's not as if--"

"You snogged him already? In prison?" She looks half-excited, half-worried for him.

He shrugs. "Technically, he snogged me."

She laughs, and it makes him feel like everything might be all right after all.

"So... What do I do? I've kissed a convicted Death Eater. Someone who's done things that if I think about them..."

"If you think about them, what?" She's turned part-counselor, part-cross examining attorney. 

"I don't KNOW!" he growls. "He fucks me up, doesn't he? I mean, this is the person who came to taunt me after Cedric's death! Who engineered Buckbeak's execution! Who--"

"Who couldn't kill Dumbledore even to save himself or his family."

Harry takes a deep breath. "Who's been so vile it makes me sick."

"Who saw his friend die in the Room of Hidden Things. Who _you_ saved from the same fate."

"Why are you selling me on Malfoy? What possible good could that do?"

"I'm just presenting equally true but seemingly opposite perspectives."

"You're just confusing me."

"Okay, then, tell me this: Is Malfoy a good kisser?"

A bright, warm place in Harry's chest ignites. It heats his cheeks. He can't suppress the crooked smile. He breathes, "Merlin's pants, yes." He pulls at his hair, groaning. "Oh my God, Hermione, what the fuck am I doing?"

"Following your heart like always?"

He rolls his eyes. "Or the other thing."

"I don't think you're trying to talk Malfoy out of Azkaban just for a good shag."

He shrugs, and she makes like she's going to hit him with one of her pillows. They laugh together, and he's so grateful for her, he wishes he could leap through the Floo and hug her.

They talk about other things. The night deepens, and they both start yawning.

"I'll let you go get some sleep," he says.

"Good-night, Harry. And don't worry so much that you'll do the wrong thing. You can trust yourself, you know."

"Well, I can trust you at any rate."

She smiles, and he backs out of the Floo. He sits on his study floor, staring at the butter-yellow walls, and wonders if Malfoy is sleeping.

*

Draco's never asked for anything since he's been here, but he's asking now. He petitions whoever will listen -- through Rufus or else he knows his parchment would end up under someone's shoe. He asks for two showers per week.

He tells himself that this is because it offends his pureblood sensibilities to be so filthy so often.

He tells himself he's only trying to feel human, as much as that is possible inside this vile place.

It is most certainly not because of Harry Potter.

Potter doesn't show up again for the longest time anyway. If he were the reason, Draco's cleanliness would be wasted. So it's a good thing he's not. Because Rufus came through for him, and Draco is allowed to shower every Tuesday and Friday now.

So of course Potter shows up on a Monday night.

Draco's been lying on his cot, staring into the darkest corner of Azkaban, where his spider friend has been quite busy, when Potter's footsteps ring out on the stone and his voice, carrying through the bars, through the magic, seeps beneath Draco's skin.

But he's not speaking to Draco.

"How much time can you give us, Rufus?"

Not 'me'. _Us._

Draco sits up.

"Half an hour all right?" Rufus asks, already unlocking the door.

"Should be. Thank you." Potter steps inside. Rufus locks up and walks away. "Hi," Potter says.

Draco doesn't think Potter has ever extended a greeting to him before. He frowns, shifting on his cot.

"I brought you something."

Draco tamps down his genuine interest and simply raises an eyebrow. He thinks about asking if it's a collection of gay wizarding pornography but then thinks better of even indirectly referencing Potter's last visit.

Potter approaches, and Draco schools his breath.

"You can't use it in here. The wards make it useless. Which, of course, begs the question why you can't have it back, right?"

Draco's mouth has gone dry. Potter's holding something wrapped in a cloth. He unfolds the fabric. Then he frowns.

"I guess you'll have to wait for the Disillusionment charm to wear off. I don't have my wand, so I can't remove it myself, but Hermione said it was only meant to be temporary anyway." He shrugs.

"Is that a... quill feather?"

"Yes -- and I did a lot of research on this -- apparently you're allowed to have a quill in your cell, minus the nib. I guess they're trying to prevent you stabbing someone with it. Although, I think it would rather hurt to be poked in the eye with the pokey end of a feather just the same. Not to mention, what the bloody hell good is a quill without the nib, right?"

"Why have you brought me a quill feather, Potter?"

Now he smiles. "I haven't, Malfoy. Okay, let me see if I can..." He holds his hand over it, attempts some wandless magic. He grimaces, shakes his hand out, and tries again. "The magic dampeners are pretty strong. I guess we'll just have to w--"

But as he speaks, the feather changes shape. It lengthens, solidifies. Draco's breath catches. "Merlin, Potter, is that...? Did you bring...?"

"Yeah. Want to hold it?"

Draco's gaze flits up to Potter's face. He's expecting a cruel joke -- for it to be jerked away or turn into one of the Weasley twins' creations. "You... brought me my wand?"

Potter nods.

"Why? I can't use it."

"I reckoned that if it were me, I'd at least want to see it. I'd want to hold it again." He holds it out to Draco, and Draco feels magnetised to it, like whatever wards they've put up can't possibly completely sever the connection between him and it. He's touching it before he's really decided to.

He takes it out of Potter's open hands, wraps his fingers around it. "You've had it? All this time?"

Potter shrugs.

Draco turns it over, this way and that. "You've cleaned it... taken care of it."

"It's a decent wand."

To his surprise, Draco feels tears rise up in his throat. "What are you playing at, Potter?"

"Nothing. I'm not playing at anything."

Draco's grip tightens on the wand. He stands. He pushes it back into Potter's hands roughly. "Take it. I don't want it." He turns away.

Potter sighs hard. "Yes, you do, Malfoy."

"Just leave me alone."

"I think you want it so badly it scares you."

"Shut up."

"I think you've never wanted anything so badly in your life."

"Potter..."

"I think you miss it. You miss the magic flying down your arm, into your wand. You miss the heat and the power and the pure, focused beauty of it. You want it back, and you _should_ want it back. Malfoy, you're not the same person. You're not going to misuse--"

Draco whirls on him. "You don't know me! You don't bloody know me, you fucking stupid prick!" He shoves his sleeve up, exposing the pale mark on his left arm. He's trembling. "This is what I _AM_! You don't just ch--"

Potter kisses him.

The stupid arsehole kisses him.

And then it is as if there are no wards. The magic that sparks between them -- his lips against Potter's, their tongues slipping over one another -- is not subtle. It's _Reducto_ , _Confringo_ , _Stupefy_ , _Ascendio_! Potter yanks him in, and then their hands move over one another's bodies hurriedly. Draco pulls Potter's shirt free of his trousers; Potter works on the ties holding Draco's what-passes-for-trousers up.

Draco pulls back, an impossible question on his lips. He looks into Potter's eyes.

"We've got time," Potter says. He pulls Draco's shirt up and off, letting it fall to the floor. 

Draco frowns the same question at him -- a multitude of questions:

_Do you really want this?_

_Are we really doing this?_

_Don't you know who it is you're kissing... undressing... staring at like he's beautiful?_

_This is me, Potter._

_Me._

And yet his own cock seems not to care about any moral, existential dilemma. There is no dilemma. There is Potter removing his glasses and setting them aside and then shrugging off the jacket, stripping off his own shirt, and bloody hell, there is Potter's fit body right there to touch, to stroke, to _take_.

Draco wraps his arm low around Potter's back, pulls him in, and kisses him hard. Their chests touch, and Draco's cock rears up against Potter's hip. He turns them, walks Potter backward, and then pushes him down onto his cot.

Potter doesn't hesitate; he lies back, pulls his jeans and pants down to mid-thigh, and his prick bounces free, the girth impressive. A pearly bead of pre-come slips down the crown. Draco is kneeling and taking it into his mouth before he can draw breath, before the dawn of thought.

"Oh, fuck," Potter whispers, his hand immediately finding Draco's head, what's left of his hair, rubbing over the bristles as though he might actually like the feel of it against his seeking fingers, his palm. "Malfoy, fuck." His other hand presses, braces against the wall over his head.

Draco bobs on the beautiful prick in his mouth. He's not experienced at this. He gags, chokes, tries again. He just wants this. He wants Potter's cock deep in his mouth. He can't get enough of it. He tastes like clean sweat, smells of his own arousal. Draco holds his hips down and takes as much as he can, over and over. Potter starts to make whining noises, no more words coming now. Draco feels high on the power of it. He cradles Potter's balls in his hand -- so big and soft and prickly with coarse black hair. He rolls them, tongues the underside of his hot cock. Potter arches off the bed and comes thick, bitter streams into Draco's mouth. Draco swallows it. He growls for more... and gets it. He flicks his tongue at the slit, forcing Potter's cock to jerk in his mouth one last time. Potter practically wails.

He's never done anything so insane as sucking Potter's cock.

He feels as though he could fly with no broom.

Potter sags back down, panting. Draco's painfully hard. Potter pulls at his shoulders, his waist, grips at his thin trousers, trying to get Draco where he wants him. 

Potter _wants_ him. 

Draco climbs up the bed, and even while he's straddling Potter's chest, Potter's ripping open the ties and pulling his trousers down so that Draco's prick falls free right over his mouth.

Draco cradles the back of Potter's head. Breathless, he aims his cock down. He fits it into Potter's willing mouth, knuckles brushing soft lips. Potter starts sucking, and Draco's mouth falls open on the daft bliss of it. He plants a hand over Potter's head on the stone wall. He can't help thrusting. Potter moans, his hands sliding up Draco's tensed belly, over his ribs, touching scars Draco's never let anyone even see -- the scars that Potter put there.

Draco grits his teeth and fucks Potter's mouth, the Saviour's lips swollen around his cock. Harry blinks up at him, his hands roaming Draco's body tenderly -- hip bones, arse, thighs. Draco falters. He frowns down at Potter's openness. 

Potter pulls off, licks his lips. "Don't stop." His hand strokes Draco's cock quickly in the interim, keeping him near that edge. He fits it back into his mouth. Draco adjusts his stance, planting a foot on the floor. He grips the base of the window sill. He starts thrusting into Potter's mouth again.

Potter's eyes flutter closed. Draco tightens his hand in his hair. His head drops back. "Oh fuck." He's never felt anything so good in his life. Draco comes. The orgasm hits hard, shooting down his trembling thighs. He rams his cock into Potter's mouth, cutting off his groans. But Potter's hands don't push him away; they urge him on, moving over Draco's skin as though they're lovers.

When Draco has spent himself and he feels faint, he withdraws. He staggers back and then sits hard at the foot of the bed. Potter is panting, licking his lips, panting again. "Merlin," he says, an unmistakable smile in his voice.

Draco fastens his trousers, his fingers shaking so badly he can barely manage it. He finds his shirt and drags it back on. Potter sits slowly, and Draco can't help but let his gaze wander down his bare chest, his stomach, the flaccid cock nestled against his thighs -- before Potter pulls his jeans up.

Draco hands him his shirt and his glasses. Potter takes them and finishes dressing. He runs his hands over his hair twice. It makes Draco miss his own.

But then he remembers the feel of Potter's hand over his head... how good it would have felt to lean into that gentle, welcome touch.

Potter stands and straightens his clothes. He bends and retrieves Draco's wand. A telling jingle of keys sounds from down the hall.

"I'll hold onto this for you," Potter says softly. "Until you're out." He stows it in his back pocket, covering it with his t-shirt. Then he bends down and kisses Draco, quick and hard, his tongue penetrating Draco's mouth only to recede just as fast. He straightens just as Rufus walks up to the cell door. 

Draco blinks at Potter. "You're delusional."

Potter quirks him a smile. "Maybe." 

"I broke your nose, you git."

"I nearly killed you."

"You saved my life." It's out before he can think better of it.

"And I'm going to do it again. Must be worth something." Potter walks to the door but then stops halfway through it. "There's just one thing I know, Malfoy." He looks over his shoulder, finding Draco's wary gaze. "I'm not going to let you hang yourself."

He turns around, walks through the door Rufus holds open, and then he's gone.

Draco falls back onto his cot, which now smells like Potter and sex and marvellous things, and he throws an arm over his eyes.

*

Tuesday morning, first thing, Harry barges into Kingsley Shacklebolt's office. "We need to talk."

Belatedly, Harry looks around the room to see the heads of every Ministry department frozen with their quills over parchment, staring at him in silence.

Harry clears his throat, a hot flush creeping up his neck.

"We'll continue this meeting after lunch," Shacklebolt tells them.

Grumbling, they gather themselves and hurry out, leaving Harry alone with the Minister.

"Good to see you, too, Harry."

"Look, I'm sorry for interrupting, but it's important."

"Draco Malfoy?"

"Yes, I--"

"I'm aware of your visits. Any luck yet?"

Harry sighs.

"Please. Sit." Shacklebolt gestures to a chair across from his desk. Harry takes it but remains sitting forward, unable to relax.

"Minister--"

"Kingsley."

"Kingsley," Harry amends. "Why in bloody hell is he still in there? What has he done that's so much worse than anyone else? Why--"

"I am not the entire Wizengamot, Harry. As you're likely aware, my vote was not the popular one. But if I can help you, I will. Do you have a proposal for me?"

"I do." Harry swallows. He stayed up more than half the night coming up with it, and he rehearsed a speech about it all the way here. But now that it's time... Harry sighs. He speaks from his heart, like Hermione advised when he fire-called her at midnight to beg for her help. "I'm here to ask you to let him write out his apology in his own words. Don't make him recite something that maligns his family in front of a bunch of witches and wizards who don't know him, didn't see the terror I saw in him during the war, and can't understand this admittedly barmy choice he's making. Let him do it his way. It can go in an official file -- however you like, just... I can help him. I can get him to do this."

Kingsley appears to consider it. "And his community service?"

Harry nods. He's prepared for this, too. "I have an idea for that." He slides the brochure he brought over the desk. 

Kingsley picks it up and observes what Harry knows to be a photograph in which Charlie Weasley soars toward the camera on a Welsh Green, letting her unleash a thick ball of flame, before pulling up hard and flying her away.

"'Dragon problems?'" Kingsley reads aloud. "'Let Charlie Weasley and his crew help you. Removal, Rehoming, Rehabilitation. Weasley's Ranch for all your dragon-related needs. A healthy, happy dragon is a mostly safe dragon.' Why are you showing me this?"

Harry takes a deep breath. Kingsley will be the first person he's talked to about this other than Charlie himself. "It's what I'm going to be doing starting early in the new year. I'd like Draco to come with me."

"And this would be his community service?"

"Helping the dragon population become healthy, working to deter aggressive behaviour toward the wizarding community, and even fostering cooperation between the species is, I'm sure you'd agree, a valuable service." _And he won't be hexed and heckled and shamed on the streets of Hogsmeade,_ Harry thinks but doesn't say.

Kingsley is slow to nod, but nod he does. "And this," he tosses the brochure back across the desk toward Harry, "this is what you want as well? Because I'd rather hoped you'd apply for Auror training when you were ready."

"I still might," Harry says. "You could use more people well-versed in dealing with dragons, couldn't you?"

Kingsley gives him a knowing smile. "Two people perhaps?"

Harry smiles. "Does that mean you'll approve my plan?"

"I'll have a meeting with Chief Witch Spinnet later today. Expect an Owl from me tonight on it."

Harry stifles his sigh of relief. He stands and reaches across the desk to shake the Minister's hand. "Thank you, sir."

"Kingsley, Harry. Until you're working for me, that is."

"Yes, sir--er, Kingsley." 

He walks out of the office, strides quickly to the row of Floos, but then realises he can't just go home and wait for an Owl for hours. He goes into Diagon Alley instead and runs his errands, though he's distracted the whole time and has to take the book he bought on haunted plumbing back to Flourish and Blotts after he goes through his purchases at lunch and sees he accidentally picked up a manual on how to haunt your own house after you die.

He goes to see Luna when he runs out of shopping and feels guilty for being totally scattered through their whole conversation -- until he realises Luna's gone off on multiple tangents and has succeeded in distracting herself from her own topic just fine, too.

Finally, just before dinner time, Harry Floos home. When he stumbles out into his own study, the first thing he does is call for Kreacher. "Fetch a bottle of the Reserve from the cellar, would you? I'll pour us both a glass." Harry strips off his tie and flings it... Well, somewhere.

"Kreacher does not partake of the Firewhisky, Master. Kreacher prefers the rum."

"Well, fetch yourself some then and take the night off. I'll get take-away for dinner." Harry falls onto his sofa with a soft thud.

"Kreacher has already prepared Master a shepherd's pie. Under stasis in the kitchen."

"Kreacher?"

The elf looks at him over his hooked nose.

"Thank you."

Kreacher grumbles to himself but Disapparates to the cellar and back in under a minute with a bottle of Ogden's for Harry and rum for himself, with which he Disapparates again.

The wait for Kingsley's Owl is excruciating, and Harry can only stomach half the plate Kreacher left him. He slings back two Firewhiskies to try to calm his nerves, but he jumps when the eagle owl lands on the sill anyway.

He practically runs to let it in, along with a strong, cold wind, the first bite of winter. "Please, Merlin, let this have worked," Harry whispers, taking the note off the proffered leg. He doesn't want to think of Malfoy in that cell during the harsh winter months.

Harry scrambles to open the parchment, and when he reads it, he sinks to the floor laughing. "You bloody fantastic bird," he says. He leans his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes.

*

Draco drowns out the sounds of the three guards laughing and talking by the door and leans his head back, letting the lukewarm water sluice over his body. At least it's not freezing today. Draco counts this as some kind of miracle.

He's doing a fair job of not thinking about Potter too much. He doesn't want an erection in here, after all. But the smile that graces his lips cannot be helped.

Until he realises that the voices have died down, and now there is only the jingle of one set of keys coming closer. Too close.

The sound makes him jerk his head up, his eyes popping open.

"You think you're the dog's bollocks, don't you, Malfoy?"

Draco wipes the water from his face and cuts his gaze to the side, looking behind Hector for the others.

"Oh, they went to check on a disturbance down on three." Hector smiles. 

Draco's already clean, so he turns the water off and quickly grabs up the ratty towel he's been provided. He doesn't take the time to dry himself, just wanting the towel around his waist and covering as much as possible as Hector strides into Draco's personal space.

Draco presses back against the wall, holding his breath.

Hector draws a wand.

Draco thinks about calling for help. But Rufus isn't on today, and the other guards are too far away now, and Draco doubts they'd want to stand up to Hector on his behalf anyway. They might even join the bastard. He decides to keep quiet and hope that Hector's here for a little verbal fun and nothing more.

Hector looks him up and down. Draco knows he's not bent. He's got a wife and a kid on the way, and he loves to brag about 'pounding cunt' whenever he's got a sympathetic ear. Not that this proves his heterosexuality, but Draco doubts he'd relish being caught in the Azkaban showers with his trousers down all the same. He's got a certain ineffable mystique to maintain with his brethren. But the look he passes over Draco is both assessing and predatory, and whether it's to scare Draco or because it's real, Draco can't be certain. A sick knot forms in his stomach. He clutches the towel tighter around his skinny waist and keeps an eye on Hector's wand hand.

"I've heard what you and him been up to," Hector says. "And I'm here to tell you, Malfoy, this ain't no holiday stay." He stands close, almost touching Draco. "You and your love poems and poncy art and weekly visits from your boyfriend. You think I'm scared of him?" He spits his next words into Draco's face, making him flinch. "I'll hurt 'im, Malfoy. I'll hurt 'im bad and ain't nobody going to know it was me."

Draco's hardly breathing but every scant inhale wreaths him in Hector's scent: oniony sweat and stale cigarettes.

"Fact," Hector goes on, "I think I could make it look like it was you. How would that be?"

Draco swallows. He's surprised by the lack of fear in his voice when so very much of it is pumping through his heart with every manic beat. "What do you want?"

Hector backs off, smiling like they're friends. He opens his arms. "Nothing too terrible, Malfoy. I'm a reasonable man." He drops his arms, fingers still tight around the wand. "You just make sure he don't come back. You hear me? He's been talkin' to Shacklebolt, that one. He's going to change things around here. He's going to make it so that I lose my job, make it so that only Aurors is guards. And I can't have that, Malfoy. No. I can't have that." He steps in closer again, and Draco stares at a mole on his neck. "His next visit, he don't come in the cell, and he don't come back after that at all. You make sure o' that. You know I'll hurt 'im, Malfoy." He tilts his head, examining Draco once more. "We understand each other, you pureblood piece of shit?"

Draco glowers at the mole. He refuses to let the fear show. "Yes. We understand each other."

"Good." Hector turns to go but rounds on him again at the door. "And I've cleared out your cell of all that crap. We wouldn't want you distracted from your task, right?" He draws the mucus into the back of his mouth and spits it onto the shower floor before he smiles and leaves.

Draco breathes out in a rush, fresh tears prickling behind his eyes.

*

Harry bounds up stairs that are usually so tiresome but today feel like springs under his feet, propelling him up to Malfoy's cell. He grips the parchment in his hand and forces the smile off his face.

Reaching Malfoy's floor, Harry walks quickly down the hall. He can't wait to tell Malfoy the good news -- even if the stupid shit has his usual round of complaints. Harry will withstand them. He'll outlast them, out-argue them. He'll make Malfoy see. 

But when he stands in front of the bars, he finds Malfoy with his head in his hands.

"Malfoy?"

His head jerks up, and his eyes go hard. He looks away quickly. "Get out."

"Malfoy, it's me. I've got--" He holds the parchment up.

"I don't give a fuck what you've got. Get out of here. Now, Potter!"

Harry can't believe what he's hearing. He's holding out the parchment with the Minister of Magic's signature on it, outlining Malfoy's new terms, and Malfoy won't even take it. He won't look at Harry. 

"What's going on?" Harry had been prepared for Malfoy to hem at the offer. He is not prepared for this.

"You heard me." Malfoy is ice. He's sharp as a blade. "I don't need you around here. I don't want you around here."

"Well, frankly, Malfoy, I don't want to be here, either. Neither should you. That's kind of the fucking point." Harry's heart goes cold in his chest.

Malfoy stands and whirls on him, and Harry thinks he sees tears hanging in his eyes, but in the next moment he's convinced he's deceiving himself, because the words coming from Malfoy's mouth are unfathomable. "Get out. Get out of here, Potter." His jaw goes firm, and he looks like he might be sick. "You pathetic... poncy little poof. I'd as soon spend the rest of my life in here as have to see you again.... have you _touch_ me. You and your fuckwit idealism! You make me sick."

Harry hears the words, but the eyes say something different. He shakes his head, thunderstruck. "Draco..."

"Don't you call me that."

A searing pain fills Harry's chest. It reminds him of when Voldemort had hold of him. He never thought he'd have to feel this again.

He swallows and lifts his chin. He sticks the parchment through the bars. "You take this, and I won't come back. You'll get your wish."

Malfoy eyes him from across the cell. Harry can see that he's trembling, his hands holding so tight to his own upper arms that his fingers have gone white. He walks over slowly. He reaches out for the parchment. When he's close enough, Harry reaches through, grasps him behind the neck and pulls him to the magic barrier, opening his mouth in a deep, painful kiss.

For just a moment, Malfoy melts for him. He lets himself be kissed. He utters a plaintive, broken sound. Harry tastes tears on his lips.

Then Malfoy pulls away. He stumbles backward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in disgust. Harry drops the parchment to the floor of the cell.

"Don't you ever come back here," Malfoy whispers. He turns away from Harry, shoulders hunched as though against cold.

Harry backs away.

He stalks down the hall, down the endless stairs. His shoes make a perfectly normal, utilitarian sound against the stone. 

He snatches his wand from the security wizard on his way out. He walks to the bike, straddles it. His hands are shaking as he pulls on the riding gloves. He kicks the engine over, kicks it again, and then guns it hard. He spins out, spitting pebbles behind himself. Harry puts his foot down and rides straight toward the edge of the island's cliff, leaning into the handlebars. At the last moment, he pulls up. He soars into the clouds and rides away as fast as the bloody bike can fly.

*

"Nice job, Malfoy," Hector says, scooping up the unread parchment and tucking it under his arm.

Draco doesn't move, doesn't blink.

"Maybe when they finally do let you out of here -- what is it, eighteen more months? -- I'll even let you have your love poems back." He laughs and walks away.

Draco stares into the dark corner, too numb to cry.

*

"Wake up. We're breaking Draco Malfoy out of Azkaban."

Ron groans, turning over in his bed. "Wha?"

"Come on." Harry gives the bed a little kick and then walks out of the room, pacing in the kitchen instead.

Ron shuffles out scratching his arse, his pyjamas wrinkled. "What's this about Malfoy?"

"You don't have to come with me. I realise _you're_ not in love with him, and I can't ask you to break the law for--"

"In love? With Malfoy? Who?"

"Me."

"You?"

"Yes, me." Harry waves his hand as if this isn't important. It's periphery right now at any rate. "I think there's a guard there who might be threatening him. I got an Owl from one of the other guards who--"

"Wait, you're breaking Malfoy out of _Azkaban_?"

"For fuck's sake, Ron, have some tea, would you? I need you caffeinated." 

"Harry. You can't do this. You'll be sent there yourself."

"I have to. He's practically being held hostage."

"I thought he was there out of pride."

"I don't think it was ever out of pride, but that's not important now. What is important is that I can get him out, and I have to, Ron."

"Have you told Hermione?"

Harry shakes his head. "The last thing I want is to get her expelled from school. I hear it's worse than being killed," he adds for some levity that Ron appears not to appreciate.

Ron sighs. "Right. Well. What do you need from me, mate?"

"Are you serious?"

He shrugs. "You'd break Hermione out for me. 'Course, she'd never need broken out, would she? She's not a barmy little git who can't apologise."

"He's not proud, Ron. He's terrified and ashamed."

"Ashamed I get. Terrified, though? Of what?"

Harry just stands there, belligerent. 

"You're really in love with him?"

Harry exhales. He nods.

"Well, blimey. All right, let's have it. What can I do?"

Harry relaxes. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just tell me."

"I need you to be Narcissa Malfoy's alibi."

"What?"

"They'll suspect she's involved. Just get yourself invited to her house -- I'll help with that -- and have tea and biscuits for a couple hours."

"A couple _hours_?"

"She makes good biscuits."

"Oh. Well. If she makes good biscuits..."

"Ron."

"Yes, okay. I've got it. When?"

"This afternoon. Four o'clock. That's shift change at Azkaban. I can take advantage of the confusion."

"What are you going to do? You're not going to have to hurt anyone, are you?"

"I don't know yet."

"Harry!"

"Look, I'm not going to hurt anyone. Well, maybe Hector. But only him. It's justified."

"Even if it is, that doesn't mean there won't be consequences."

"I know."

Ron sighs. "I hope you really do love him, because you're going to end up sharing a cell together into old age, you know that?"

 

At four o'clock, Harry lands the bike outside the prison. He turns the motor off, shoves the kickstand down with a booted foot, and dismounts.

He strides quickly toward the towering walls, but his heart is steady, strong. He's unafraid.

Within twenty paces of the door, he pulls his wand.

Five more steps and Kingsley Shacklebolt, three Aurors behind him, steps out from the doorway. "Harry. Stop."

Harry does, but he doesn't stow his wand.

"Minister? What are you doing here?"

Shacklebolt glances at Harry's wand. "I thought I'd ask you the same question."

Harry resituates the wand in his grip. "I'm just here to do what's right."

Shacklebolt nods. "And so am I."

"What would that be exactly?"

"Holster your wand, and I'll be happy to discuss it with you."

Harry hesitates. He respects this man. Likes him. He wants to trust him. But it hasn't been so long since the Ministry turned its back on him, on Dumbledore. The bitter taste of that time still fills his mouth.

"Harry." It's a gentle warning. The Aurors' hands all go to their hips.

"I'll put my wand away after we've talked. There are things you need to know."

Just then, there's a commotion behind Shacklebolt's group. The three Aurors stand aside and five more exit the prison with someone struggling between them.

"For Merlin's sake, Stupefy him," Shacklebolt orders.

Harry expects to see Draco, though why they'd be escorting him out of Azkaban and needing to Stupefy him, he can't ascertain. But that's when it strikes him that the frame is entirely too big, and the voice is entirely too deep, and it's not Draco at all, but--

"Hector?"

He's been Stunned by the Aurors and is being Levitated away to what Harry must assume is a Ministry Apparition point. Kingsley walks over to him, crossing his arms. 

"How did you know?" Harry asks.

"You mean you're not the one who sent the anonymous tip?"

Harry shakes his head.

"So, you're here to... what? Break Malfoy out, I suppose?"

Harry gulps.

Kingsley shakes his head slowly. "That's the problem with you Gryffindors."

The cracks of Apparition echo off the rocks.

One of the remaining Aurors walks up to the Minister. "What do you want done with the other one?"

"He's leaving on conditional release."

"Wait, do you mean Draco? Sir?"

The Auror speaks first, ignoring Harry entirely. "Edwards is talking to him now. Bloke seems to think he's not leaving."

Shacklebolt sighs. He turns to Harry. "Come with me."

Harry hurries to holster his wand and then jogs to keep up with Shacklebolt's long strides. They enter the prison and bypass the 'welcome' desk. Harry has a moment's pause about not being asked to give over his wand, but he's with the Minister of Magic, and he reckons that earns him the leeway.

They ascend the stairs, and as they do, Kingsley tells Harry what he knows -- that they received an anonymous Owl to the effect that Draco Malfoy was being blackmailed and that it was a guard named Hector doing it.

"Rufus," Harry says. "I received a similar Owl, and it was from one of the other guards. His name is Rufus."

Kingsley nods. "Thank you. I will remember that."

"So, Minister, if Draco's been cleared, what's the problem?"

"That's what I'm hoping you can find out, Harry."

They reach the tenth level and walk to the middle of the hall. Auror Edwards is leaned against the wall outside the cell, and when she sees the Minister, she straightens quickly. "Sir."

"Any luck?"

"No, sir. He's still refusing. I've tried to get him to understand that he's free to go. I'd rather not Stun a free wizard, but--"

Malfoy looks up, and when he sees Harry, his eyes go round and scared. He walks to the bars and beats them with his fists again. "No!" he cries. "He can't be here! He can't be here! Why did you bring him back here? Get out! All of you, get out of here now!"

Harry walks to the bars, reaches through, and grips Malfoy's wrists so that he can no longer harm himself against the wards. "Draco. It's okay."

"It's not!" Malfoy struggles with him, wrenching his arms out of Harry's grasp.

"It is. Listen. We know about Hector, all right? We know he was blackmailing you."

Malfoy's gaze fills with fear. He backs away from Harry, from the bars. He shakes his head, saying nothing.

Harry turns to Shacklebolt and Edwards. "May I have a few minutes alone with him?"

Shacklebolt considers and then nods. They start to walk away.

"Wait. Er, can I go inside?"

Malfoy plants his hands against the far wall of his cell, dropping his chin to his chest.

"Of course," Shacklebolt says. He nods to Edwards, who opens the cell door for Harry with a complicated swish of her wand.

He enters. "Thank you."

She nods to him, going to lock the door again.

Shacklebolt shakes his head. "There's no need for that now." He and the Auror walk away down the hall, and Harry waits for their footsteps to recede down the stairs as well before he speaks.

"They've arrested him, you know. Hector?"

Malfoy turns his head slightly, but the stiffness in his shoulders remains. Harry aches to touch him there. He remembers how it felt -- this man's hands holding his hips down, his lips bowed around Harry's cock.

"Whatever he was holding over you -- and I mean _whatever_ , Draco -- he can't anymore. I promise you."

"I..." 

Harry waits, not breathing. But Malfoy drops his head again.

"I can't."

Harry takes two steps forward but stops himself. "Merlin, Draco, why not? What did you ever do to deserve _this_?"

"Please..."

"Please, what?" A rush of heat and frustration overtakes him and Harry walks up to Malfoy's back, takes him by the shoulder, and spins him around to face him. "I fucking forgive you, damn it! Why can't you forgive yourself?"

"Because I HELD A WAND ON HIM! I was supposed to kill him! I almost _killed him_!" Tears stream down his face. "He died because of me!"

Harry blinks at this unguarded expression of his anguish. "Dumbledore."

"I took the Mark! They didn't hold me down, Potter! I took it, and I tried to kill him three times! I let them into the school! You don't come back from that!" He sags against the wall behind him. "You don't come back from that."

Harry feels an anger that borders on fury building inside himself. "You didn't kill him, Draco."

"So? I'm a failure at all of it then."

"No. You're not."

"How can you say that, Potter? After all I've done to _you_?"

"You were lied to," Harry says. He's pleading now. He doesn't know if he wants to hold Malfoy close or Incarcerous him and drag him out against his will. "Your whole life. You're not to blame for all of the bad things that--"

"So, my parents lied to me my whole life, and that's supposed to make me want to leave here and run into their arms? Bloody fuck, Potter, my father is long gone! If you think the fact that they lied to me is going to make me want to--"

"They were lied to as well!" Harry shouts. "He lied to them, manipulated them, threatened them! He hurt all of you! When are you going to start putting the blame where it belongs?"

"So I'm innocent, Potter?" Malfoy sneers.

"None of us is innocent."

"Ah, but some are more innocent than others. Did _you_ watch him kill Charity Burbage at the dinner table where you ate all your meals since you were a small child? Did you watch that... that thing...?" He stalls, looking like he could be sick. "Dear Merlin, I didn't... I can't...!"

"You had no choice. Had you spoken out against it, you would have been killed. Probably tortured first... made to watch the torture of your family. _No-one_ could have withstood that!" Harry wants to reach out to him so badly but refrains. "You didn't name me. You risked everything. Don't think I don't know that, Malfoy."

His lips twist into a tired sneer.

"Fuck, you've been locked up in here for months," Harry says. "It's more than enough."

"For who?" Malfoy's hard eyes flicker with emotion he tries to quell.

Harry steps forward. He hesitates but then lays a palm against Malfoy's pale cheek. Finally, he's touching him. "For everyone," he says. He swallows. "For me, Draco."

Malfoy breaks a little. He closes his eyes, trying to stifle the tears, but as Harry brushes his thumb over his sharp cheekbone, he crumbles. He slips down the wall sobbing, and Harry is quick to kneel in front of him.

They sit together as Malfoy cries. Harry touches his leg, just resting his hand there and offering no more comfort than that. It's several minutes before the sobs subside and Harry speaks again.

"I'm not walking out of here without you."

"You're a bloody idiot, Potter." Malfoy lifts his tear-stained face.

Harry smiles at him. He lays his hands on Malfoy's arms where they hug his knees. "Come with me, and let's leave it behind. All of it."

"You're a fool to think they'll ever let either one of us just leave it behind."

"And you're a coward if you let them define the rest of your life for you."

Malfoy flinches at the words, but then his jaw stiffens and his chin goes all pointy, and Harry knows he's hexed the right nerve.

"Let's show them," Harry says. "Fuck, Draco, they can shove their judgement up their arses. Just write the stupid apology and then come with me to Romania."

Malfoy startles, frowning. "What the bloody hell is in Romania?"

"You didn't read the parchment? They-- They didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Suddenly, words seem so pointless. Harry's no Ravenclaw; he's done with it. He wraps his hand around the back of Malfoy's neck and strikes, kissing him hard and fierce, opening the git's mouth with his own and pressing in with his tongue. Malfoy lets him. Harry kisses him with everything he is, everything they've been -- everything he hopes they can become. When he pulls back, they're both breathless.

"Come with me, Draco. Let me show you how it could be."

Malfoy sniffs and raises an eyebrow at him. "You just want me to shag you, Potter."

Harry smiles, the thrill of those words undeniable. "Don't pretend you don't want to, Malfoy."

His arrogance falters. "Potter... I didn't mean... Those things I said, I didn't..." He shakes his head.

"I know. I knew when I kissed you."

To Harry's shock, Malfoy reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair. "Did you now?" he asks softly. Then he shrugs, haughty as anything, though his eyes are still red-rimmed. "Take me to Romania, then, and we'll shag each other. I've got nothing better to do."

Harry blinks at him. "Really? You'll come with me?"

"Am I right to assume that this is the deal that's on the table?"

"Well, not the shagging part."

Malfoy smiles.

Harry stands. He offers a hand to Malfoy, and he takes it. Harry pulls him to his feet. As Malfoy is a good two inches taller than he is, Harry finds himself gazing up into his dark eyes. 

"Will they... let me have my things back?" Malfoy asks now warily.

For the first time, Harry looks around the cell, finding it as bare as the first day he visited. "That smarmy fuck." He looks into Malfoy's eyes. "Yes. I will get you your things back."

Malfoy's smile is, of all things, warm and... kind. "Thank you, Potter." His hand comes up and cradles his jaw. "Harry..." he whispers.

Harry's breath catches in his throat. Malfoy's hand is gentle; it's nothing like he ever expected. "Let's get out of here so I can kiss you somewhere besides Azkaban for once."

Malfoy's eyes sparkle. Harry sees something there he doubts anyone else has ever seen. "Let's go, Potter."

*

He writes his apology at the welcome desk. He'd thought he'd need to be taken to the Ministry for processing, but Kingsley Shacklebolt hands him a quill and parchment right there, and when Draco's finished, the Minister takes the statement, reads it over, and nods. "Very well. Draco Malfoy, you're hereby on probation under the stipulation that you complete two years of community service of your choosing, as long as such service conforms to Ministry approval and sanction. Do you agree to these terms?"

Draco glances at Potter by his side and then nods. "Yes, sir."

Shacklebolt actually smiles at him then. "You're free to go."

Draco turns toward the front doors, big as whole houses, but then finds he can't move.

Potter's voice comes from right beside him, so close his breath ghosts over Draco's neck. "You all right?"

Draco nods. He takes one step toward the doors -- toward a life. 

"Potter?"

"Yeah."

But Draco doesn't know what to say... doesn't know what he needs.

Potter rests his hand on Draco's lower back, and bloody hell, that was it. He lets his breath out, a flood of tension leaving his body. They walk to the doors together.

The sunlight strikes his face as they open, and he flinches back, covering his eyes. Potter takes the door from him, holding it open and waiting patiently.

"I'm sorry," Draco says, not knowing why.

Potter's hand on his back feels so strong and sturdy. "You have nothing left to be sorry for."

His eyes adjust, and they walk out into fresh sea air, bitingly cold. Draco is grateful for the change of clothes he's been given. He only wishes he could also cast a warming charm on himself as the wind cuts right through every layer of fabric easily.

"Oh," Potter says, stopping and digging around in his coat pockets. "They said I could give this back to you."

He holds out Draco's wand to him.

Draco blinks and takes it. His fingers fit around it as though he's only been without it a day. " _Lumos_." It lights up strong, and Draco feels warmth reverberate up his arm in waves. He smiles. " _Nox_." He stows the wand carefully in the inner pocket of his coat. "Thank you." The words feel strange in his mouth, but the look on Potter's face when he says them is worth it. Draco feels as if someone's returned a part of his soul to him. He clears his throat. "So, how are we getting off this rock anyway?"

The mischievous look Potter gives him travels right to Draco's cock. Merlin, he's easy for the git.

"Ever ridden a flying motorbike?" Potter asks.

Draco arches an eyebrow at him.

"Don't worry. It's not so different from a broom. Much easier than a dragon."

"A dragon?"

"Never mind."

"Potter--"

But he's pulling Draco along toward it, leaned there against the backdrop of the sea while the rage of crashing surf tries to wreck the rocks. And it's only now that Draco realises he forgot the warming charm altogether.

Because he's with Potter. He's going to fly with Potter. And that's stolen the chill he's suffered with for months. Even freezing cold, there's a heat inside him no wind can whisk away.

"Come on, we have to get you to your mother's. And I need to rescue Ron."

"What?"

"You'll see, Malfoy."

Potter links their fingers together.

Draco fills his lungs with sea air, and when Potter's hand gently tugs, he follows.

*

It's pitch dark in the corner, no matter the time of day. Even as the evening bleeds tangerine through rusty bars that needn't exist for all the magicks in place, that one corner remains unlit.

In the corner, there is no spider. There is only an abandoned web, turning slowly to wisps of itself, untended.

And high on the outer walls of Azkaban, a spider crawls, inch by inch, toward the roof, toward the sky, toward a new and better place to call home, leaving the irons bars and the darkness far, far behind.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave a comment here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/25945.html).


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